


curse you, and curse me too

by esmeraldablazingsky



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Andróg’s unfortunate inability to express positive emotions vs Beleg’s innate positivity: fight, Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Injury, M/M, arda’s worst tsundere x the truest of friends, or enemies to... not enemies? idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 14:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18143252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmeraldablazingsky/pseuds/esmeraldablazingsky
Summary: Everything about him was perfect in the manner of the Elves, and yet more so for his forgiveness and his steadfast loyalty. Andróg knew this.Eru, he wanted topunchBeleg sometimes.Maybe that was not the reaction most people would have had, thought Andróg. But then, most people had never been saved from a fatal wound by the same frustratingly beautiful Elf that they themselves had tried to kill at first meeting.Or: Beleg saves Andróg.





	curse you, and curse me too

The curse of Mîm seemed far off in the moment, as Andróg grabbed a companion’s bow to shoot down an orc before it could get to Túrin, but the satisfaction of a perfect shot was almost instantly undermined by a second shot that would also have been perfect had he not been on the receiving end. 

Andróg crumpled, searing pain tearing like fire through him from a shaft in his side, and he knew without really knowing that it was poisoned. It was an ironic end for him, an arrow for an arrow, and as his vision swam in agony, Andróg did not expect to escape the ravages of fate. 

Time turned erratic, his senses overwhelmed and the whole world coursing with pain. He supposed this was what death felt like. 

Death, thought Andróg, should not have felt like Túrin’s voice and Túrin’s hands and Túrin’s gaze. There was travel, and there was darkness, and there was the light of fire and a lightning-sharp renewal of the arrow in his flesh. Someone cried out, and Andróg guessed it was himself, but he could not be sure. 

Dying, surely, was not supposed to take this long. Not an honorable death, at any rate. And it was not supposed to come with Beleg Cúthalion’s concerned words, too distorted to make out. 

Andróg decided that this was not, after all, death. Maybe it would have hurt less. 

 

_Túrin watched Beleg assess the wound the moment he laid Andróg down before him. He was unconscious, mostly, and Beleg’s face was unreadable._

_“Can you save him?” asked Túrin. Beleg’s eyes flickered up to meet his for a moment before he put a hand to the shaft of the arrow, listened to Andróg’s answering groan. Túrin was painfully aware of their far-from-ideal first meeting._

_“I know you are not his friend,” said Túrin when Beleg did not speak, “but none here save you have the skill to undo what is done. We need his talent, and he needs yours.”_

_“It’s more than that,” observed Beleg. Túrin opened his mouth to reply, but Beleg put a finger to his lips._

_“I can save him,” he said. Túrin sagged in relief._

_“Hold him down for me,” said Beleg, taking off his gloves with fire in his eyes, and Túrin did._

 

When he woke, unaware that he had fallen fully unconscious in the first place, Andróg was not at the scene of a skirmish. He was not by a hasty campfire in the woods. He was back at Amon Rûdh, and the only other person in the room was Beleg. Andróg closed his eyes when Beleg looked over at him, not yet sure what to make of this or how to react. Maybe acting as if he hadn’t woken up would buy him a minute to think. 

He could hear Beleg humming softly to himself once he turned away; some fair, far-off song that Andróg was unfamiliar with. He had a lovely voice to go with his hands and his eyes and his hair and his skill with a bow that so sparked Andróg’s jealousy. Everything about him was perfect in the manner of the Elves, and yet more so for his forgiveness and his steadfast loyalty. Andróg knew this. 

Eru, he wanted to _punch_ Beleg sometimes. 

Maybe that was not the reaction most people would have had, thought Andróg. But then, most people had never been saved from a fatal wound by the same frustratingly beautiful Elf that they themselves had tried to kill at first meeting. 

Orc-work, Túrin had called it, and Andróg recalled the look on his face— one could almost have called it devastated.

He understood, now, despite the confusing mess of feelings washing through him. Wincing at the pain in his side, Andróg opened his mouth to at least try to apologize (too little, too late, but what could he do) but nothing came out. He didn’t know what he had expected. 

The attempt to speak drew Beleg’s attention anyways, and he looked up from where he’d been boiling water to see Andróg struggling to sit up properly. 

“Move not with unnecessary haste,” he said, gently pushing Andróg back down with a hand on his shoulder. “A dwarf’s curse is no laughing matter.” Despite those words, his eyes sparkled with the sort of warm mirth that seemed to run in his body. 

“You saved me,” Andróg managed to say. 

“Perhaps,” said Beleg. He smiled and added “it would be quite the blow to this merry band to lose one such as you.” 

“Merry,” Andróg tried to scoff, but he ended up coughing painfully instead. 

“Easy, easy,” said Beleg, handing him a cup of water. “It wouldn’t do to have you die just when I had assured Túrin you were safely out of the darkness.” 

“Indeed,” said Andróg. He felt awkward for more reasons than one, sitting under Beleg’s watchful scrutiny in his weakened state. Almost unconsciously he found himself turning away as if hiding from Beleg’s gaze as he drank the water. He got the uncomfortable impression that Beleg was reading his thoughts just by looking at him. 

“Stop staring at me,” said Andróg. Beleg averted his eyes, and Andróg sighed to himself. He’d meant to say something much less rude than that, but maybe he’d simply become so accustomed to aggression that all his words came out barbed. 

“Do you still bear a grudge against me?” asked Beleg without looking back at Andróg.

“What grudge?” muttered Andróg. 

“Forgive me for assuming,” said Beleg, “but it seems clear that you bear some ill will towards me.”

“Ill will that should be borne in the other direction,” said Andróg before he could stop himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Beleg’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly. 

“Is that what you think?” he murmured. 

“What does it seem like to you?” snapped Andróg. Every word out of his own mouth brought a fresh internal wince. Why, why couldn’t a single sentence be what he intended it to be?  
Beleg shrugged. 

“I can’t say I am wholly ignorant to what you mean by that,” he said. “But I bear no grudge towards you. There are many things I am prepared to forgive, if not forget.” 

It was an utterly alien sentiment, but one that offered some comfort. He would probably do well to try and adopt some of it, thought Andróg.

He sighed, and his shoulders slumped, and Beleg dared to look at him directly again. 

“I suppose I owe you a life debt,” said Andróg.

“We’re in a position where you will have many opportunities to repay it,” countered Beleg. True enough, thought Andróg. 

“I’ll try,” he said, and that, at least, sounded sincere. The sparkle of hope in Beleg’s eyes at his words made him feel like maybe, maybe that sincerity was worth pursuing. 

He’d said he would try, anyway. And so he would.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, comments fuel my soul, join discord and cry with me


End file.
